I read a Billy Collins poem about silence last night, and it made me think about the kinds of silence in a mother's life, too:
The silence of an angel, breathing rhythmically next to me in bed.
The mischievous silence: "They're too quiet."
The silence of fierce concentration; the silence of shyness.
There is the delicious semi-silence of secrets whispered and giggled over. And the booming silence of secrets kept that break mothers' hearts.
There's the silence of kinship, of knowing just how she feels. And the silence of not knowing what she's feeling at all.
There is the silence of listening to a heartbeat within. And the silence of comforting a heartbreak without.
There is silent counting -- the weeks and months until they arrive. And then, the quiet calculation of how long they've been with us. The panicked accounting of how short the time until they leave. There is the silence of a breath caught. And there is the silence of an embrace that encompasses all of time.
Billy Collins gazes on silence in his aptly titled poem:
by Billy Collins
There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a player not moving on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.
(Read the rest of the poem here.)
The Poetry Friday round-up today can be found at author amok.